How could she not go over to say hello?
“Hey, Nash,” she greeted him. “I didn’t know you read.”
“Yeah,” he replied teasingly, “I learned how in elementary school. It’s just like riding a bicycle.”
She laughed. “I meant I was surprised to see you in the library. During the day.”
Nash nodded toward the windows. “We’ve got a thunderstorm and gale-force wind going on. No way to work on the roof today. I’m going back to work on the interior, but this is my lunch break, so I thought I’d stop in. Had to return some books anyway.”
Some books? She couldn’t hide her surprise. “You’re a reader?”
“I am.”
“Most of the guys in our group would rather have their fingernails pulled out than read a book.”
Nash looked hard into Darcy’s eyes. “I’m not most guys.”
It took her a moment to compose herself. “What kind of books do you like?”
“All kinds. Nonfiction, fiction, thrillers. John le Carré is my all-time favorite. I like Henning Mankell, Kitty Pilgrim.”
“I like them, too,” Darcy agreed. “Well, I pretty much like everything that’s ever been written. When do you have time to read?”
“In the evening. All evening. Okay, sometimes I watch the Red Sox. But most television bores me.”
“Have you ever read John Buchan?”
Nash nodded. “The Thirty-Nine Steps. Yeah, I have read that book, but a long time ago.”
“I have a DVD of the movie, the one directed by Alfred Hitchcock.”
“That’s a classic. Haven’t seen it in years.”
“Maybe we could watch it this Saturday. At my house. You could bring dinner—a pizza?”
“I’d like that,” Nash said, his eyes warm, his voice low.
Darcy thought she’d melt right into the floor.
That night they didn’t watch the movie. They didn’t have the pizza Nash brought over until Darcy left their tangled sheets and brought the pizza up to eat in bed.
Nash was tall and lanky, with lots of sandy hair going in all directions—it did that naturally, unless he brushed it hard; he wasn’t a man for gelling his hair up into spikes. His eyes were light blue, fringed with dark lashes, and he had the strong, well-muscled torso of a man who worked building houses.
Darcy wasn’t sure how she felt about Nash really. He was mysterious. And she had come out of a long, cold, lonely Nantucket winter, so she’d been ready for a warm—sexually hot—relationship. She didn’t know if she wanted it to be more than that. She didn’t know what Nash wanted, either.
Today it was enough to know that Nash was coming over.
She changed out of her library lady clothes into a pair of shorts and a tank top. She put cheese, olives, nuts, and crackers on a tray to take out to the garden. And why not? She often sat in the garden with friends or alone when it was nice like it was today. She wasn’t trying to put on a show for her ex-husband or her next-door neighbors. She was simply living her life.
In the garden, she set the tray on the patio table and poured herself a glass of red wine. She strolled around the garden, checking out the flowers. The peonies were past their prime but the hydrangea were opening. She didn’t hear any voices from behind the hedges. It was only six o’clock on a warm summer day; her neighbors were probably still at the beach.
“Heigh-ho,” Nash called as he walked beneath the arbor and into the backyard. He wore jeans and a clean T-shirt.
“Hey, Nash.” Darcy watched him as he walked. It was very pleasant to watch him.
Nash kissed her lightly on the mouth—more friendly than amorous—and threw himself into a chair.
She sat across from him, handing him a glass of wine. “So how was your day?”
“Great. I was out near Surfside, working with Ramos’s crew. Hammering nails, rock on the radio, fresh air, sunshine, nice work.” He sipped his wine. “And you?”
“It was good. The summer families are trickling in. I spent a lot of time on the computer. Ordering books, answering emails. Tomorrow will be fun. I’ll be doing a couple of story times.”
“For little kids, right?”
“Yeah, those squirmy little rabbits. They’re so adorable.”
“My grandmother used to read Sherlock Holmes to me when I was around ten years old. I was all about sports. Thought I’d be a major league baseball player or maybe a star quarterback. Then I broke my big toe. It hurt like crazy, I couldn’t go out for sports that spring, I had to wear an ugly boot, and worse, I broke my big toe. There’s no glory in breaking a big toe.”
“How did you break it?” Darcy asked, laughing. It was the first time he’d ever spoken in depth about his life. She wanted to ask him so much—his grandmother? She wanted to hear all about her. And Sherlock Holmes? Darcy adored those books.
“I kicked a rock.” Nash shook his head at the memory. “It was on the beach, I thought it was just lying there, didn’t see that it was like an iceberg, most of it down beneath the sand—”
A car pulled into the drive on the other side of the hedge. Doors slammed. Voices were carried by the breeze over the hedge to Darcy’s she-was-ashamed-to-admit-it straining ears.
“I get the first shower.” The teenage girl. Willow.
“I’ll start the coals on the grill.” Boyz. “I’ll rinse off in the outdoor shower and have a proper scrub down later.”
“Willow, there are two bathrooms, you know.” The mother.
“Yeah, but the water pressure changes and I can’t get enough hot water if someone else uses the other shower.” Willow.
“All right, go ahead. Honey, I’m going to pour myself a drink. Would you like one?” The mother. The wife. Autumn.
“A gin and tonic with lots of ice would hit the spot.” Boyz.
“Darcy? Earth to Darcy.”
She forced her attention to her own backyard. Nash was frowning.
“Sorry, Nash. Sorry.” Her whole ridiculous little plan was backfiring. Boyz had no idea that his ex-wife was so near, talking with her lover. Instead, Darcy couldn’t even concentrate on what Nash was saying because she couldn’t stop eavesdropping on Boyz! She put her hand to her forehead. “I think I’m getting a headache. Too much going on.”
“Should I go home and let you lie down?” Nash asked gently.
“No, no, I want to hear about you and Sherlock Holmes and the rock.”
“Sherlock Holmes and the Rock,” Nash intoned in a radio announcer’s voice.
“Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Broken Big Toe,” Darcy shot back, proving she’d listened to at least some of what he’d said. “Why do people enjoy mysteries so much, Nash? The littlest children don’t understand mysteries, but around seven or eight years old they can’t get enough.”
“For me, it never stopped.” Nash held out his hands. “I’m a hopeless mystery addict. Especially in the summer, when I’m too beat to read anything intellectual.”
“I’m that way, too!” Darcy exclaimed.
“Here’s your drink, darling. When do you think the coals will be ready?”